


The Art of Contemporary Shibari

by Edgelord (lostlikeme)



Series: State of the Art [1]
Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - College/University, Bondage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Meditation, Shibari
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-25
Updated: 2016-05-25
Packaged: 2018-06-10 13:31:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6958615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lostlikeme/pseuds/Edgelord
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You don’t have to do that,” Zuko says, but the logic is lost when Aang gingerly touches his wrist.</p><p>“No, really,” Aang says lightheartedly over morning tea. “I don’t mind at all.”</p><p>Or, Aang teaches Zuko how to relax.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Art of Contemporary Shibari

Zuko can’t stand Aang, from his perfect yoga poses to the way he pretends not to brag about being a vegan. They’ve shared a dorm room for three quarters of a semester but Zuko still hasn’t adapted to his cheerful early morning demeanor or spontaneous acts of generosity. Still awake from the night before, Zuko nearly shrieks at Aang’s sudden presence behind him. 

“That’s awesome.”

The charcoal breaks between his fingers and the newsprint. Zuko swallows, unable to contain his rage when his wrist jerks away, leaving a black line halfway across the paper. 

“Sorry!”

Aang is short in neither tea nor apologies. Zuko watches Aang from his place on the bed. His naked torso twists as he effortlessly snatches the kettle from the hot plate before the steam turns to a whistle. There’s only a few inches between the burner and the computer keyboard. Fire hazard, his brain warns him. Aang hops from one heel to the next when he turns to pour Zuko’s cup. 

“Sorry for scaring you.”

The smell of jasmine eases the tension in Zuko’s shoulders. He presses his palms to the hot ceramic and glowers at Aang over the rim of the mug. 

Zuko scowls. “I wasn’t scared. I was aggravated.”

The assignment is still hanging beside his desk, upper corner flagging from where the tape is peeling away. Zuko tries not to think about the hours of his life whittled away; wasted. They stare at each other across the space between their twin beds, separated by a single dresser with a monitor on top. Aang’s eyes slide sideways to the charcoal drawing before leveling with Zuko’s. 

“You seem tense,” he says carefully. “Maybe I can help you relax.”

It takes a full minute for Zuko to absorb the offer. His kneejerk reaction is that Aang is coming onto him, but that’s impossible. Instead he remembers Aang’s fondness for tofu and flexibility. Zuko sets the cup town and folds his arms.

“I can’t sit still for any of that hippie crap.”

Aang’s eye contact is unwavering, and Zuko finds himself outmatched. “You won’t have to.”

Before he can protest Aang is pulling open the bottom dresser drawer. Zuko considers going to bed, leaving the dormitory, or dropping out of school just to avoid the flighty feeling in his chest. Aang presents him with a bright red rope before he can make a decision.

Zuko stiffens, his body’s first defense. “What?” 

Aang’s face remains neutral as he explains. “Shibari is used in shared meditation, it can help reduce anxiety.”

It takes Zuko half a second to switch gears and filter through his native language. 

“You want to tie me up?” Only from someone like Aang could this not be considered an overture. 

“Zuko,” he says pragmatically. “We’re friends. I just want to help you.”

Friends: a concept Zuko would rather not dwell upon. Between glassblowing burns and six hour studios he hasn’t had the time to make any. He’s already grown closer to Aang than his own family, but that says more about his home life than his sociability.

“You don’t have to do that,” Zuko says, but the logic is lost when Aang gingerly touches his wrist.

“No, really,” he says lightheartedly over morning tea. “I don’t mind at all.”

The procedure begins with a quick loop around Zuko’s throat, a V shape taut against his collarbone. Zuko takes a deep breath and wishes the exhale was steadier. If Aang were anyone else, he’d be worried. Once, Zuko saw him rescue a drowning fly from the water leaking into the bathroom sink. It’s hard to feel afraid, but Zuko’s body resists anyway.

“Remember: inhale, count to three, exhale, count to three.”

Zuko snaps. “I know.”

The cord curls around Zuko’s shoulders and meets at the center of his chest where Aang ties a sturdy knot. He pulls until the rope overlaps Zuko’s shirt, tightening the fabric around his pectorals. Self-conscious, Zuko flexes his fingers before curling them into a fist.

Aang abandons the knot, refocusing his attention on Zuko’s face. “Is it too tight? How are you feeling?” 

Zuko can’t bring himself to respond, watching Aang’s nimble fingers make swift work of twisting the rope around his navel. The next tug pulls his arms backwards, binding them together. The sensation is better against his bare skin, wrists flush when Aang tightens the rope and begins another knot. Aang’s fingernails graze his artery and Zuko can’t squash the shudder. 

Aang places a hand against Zuko’s chest. “You’re still tense.” 

“No shit,” Zuko says, steeling himself for Aang’s touch; two fingers pressing at the juncture of his neck. 

“Is this okay?” Aang asks, working through the stress wound in Zuko’s shoulders. 

The massage is more intimate than Zuko’s hurried showers after he finishes an art project, and only half as long. Aang eases the discomfort with pure presence, humming as he untwists the irritated muscle. When Aang shifts from behind him Zuko’s back bows, sagging against the bindings. 

The silence settles like the moments after the season’s first snowfall: peaceful.

Zuko can’t help but admit the rope suits him, entranced as Aang winds the fire engine red carefully around his exposed calf. When Aang reaches his thighs Zuko’s perfectly practiced breathing pattern shatters. He tries to fix it but Aang notices before he can redirect himself. He’s thinking about the flames again, the smell of singed skin and burnt plastic.

“Hey Zuko, you still with me?” The playful lilt in his voice disappears and grounds Zuko to the present.

Somehow, he still struggles to find his voice. “I’m fine.”

Aang backtracks onto the bed across from him, sitting still on his haunches. “You look great.”

With this much distance between them Zuko feels something close to vulnerability. What kind of guy needs his arms tied behind his back just to take the edge off? He turns away from Aang and feels the rope rub against the juncture of his throat. It almost feels like chastisement. 

“So that’s it?” Zuko huffs.

Aang senses the shift, crosses the space and presses his hand back to Zuko’s chest. He feels no calmer, but Aang’s eyes light up at the feel of his relaxed pulse. “You’re on the right track.” The air feels thick when Aang smiles. “Now take a deep breath, until your chest expands.”

When his lungs inflate his shirt sticks beneath the rope, nipples hard. The praise does something funny to Zuko’s heart, and he rides the feeling straight to his dick. Aang pulls his hand away like he’s been burned and Zuko’s face fills like a thermometer submerged in boiling water. 

“Uh, wow,” Aang’s clear voice cuts through the silence. “Zuko, I’m flattered.”

The tent in his pants is obvious now, could fit an entire three ring circus. Zuko can feel his own judgement, shame like a scalding brand. Aang’s eyes are curious, his smile soft. He ducks his head to gauge Zuko’s expression. 

“Maybe sometime after finals--when you aren’t tied up?”

Aang hunches to work out the knot and Zuko rises on autopilot, eager to ease Aang’s discomfort. The action goes unnoticed as Aang picks at the rope woven around his rib cage. It unravels and pools around him on the floor. 

“Um,” Zuko says, trying to ignore the blood rushing in his ears. “I’d like that.”


End file.
